


The Last of the Bolotnikovs

by iluvdanimal



Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015)
Genre: Gen, Jupiter Ascending Fic Challenge, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 17:44:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4714757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iluvdanimal/pseuds/iluvdanimal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One minute made the difference in the lives of the entire Bolotnikov family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last of the Bolotnikovs

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Nonsuch's 2nd JA Fic Challenge - One Different Decision.

Moltka Bolotnikov woke one morning to find he was alone.

With such a big, loud family, this was something he'd never experienced in all his ten years of life. Vladie usually slept loudly next to him, but his elder brother was gone. Moltka checked his parents' bed, to find it was still made up. His grandmother's bed, and Mikka's next to it, were empty. Nino, Aleksa, and Jupiter were nowhere to be found.

There were no notes, not anywhere, and all the cell phones were left sitting on bedside tables, or charging in the kitchen. Everything was so perfectly still, and right where it was supposed to be. Except no one was there.

Still in his pajamas, he opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch. The neighborhood was quiet and sunny, and the station wagon was parked in its place, and there was no sign of anyone. He walked around the house and checked the garage, but no one was there, either.

Mrs. Martinez, the neighbor on the left, was a cranky old woman who had often threatened Moltka with a paddle for the crime of riding his bike crossways over her lawn. He knew she watched the whole neighborhood. So, hesitantly, he approached her front door, and knocked.

Shrewd eyes and an arched brow greeted him as she hobbled as far as her locked screen door. “Yes?”

“Um . . . Mrs. Martinez . . . my parents aren't home.”

“And that's _my_ problem?”

“No,” he said quickly, regretting having come to her. “But I thought maybe you'd know where they went? Like, they maybe went out for a walk or something?”

“No,” she snapped. “I'm not the neighborhood watch. Why don't you go mow the lawn while you wait for them?” With a clearly disgusted grimace at Moltka, she hobbled away.

The neighbor on the right, Mr. Alexander, was kinder, but no more helpful. “No, Moltka, I haven't seen them,” he said. “Have your dad stop by when he gets home though, would you? I might have a job for him.”

Moltka nodded and went back to his house, thoroughly confused and a little worried. But his stomach growled at him, and he rubbed it, and went to the kitchen to find some breakfast.

After a too-big bowl of Fruit Loops he settled himself in front of Vladie's enormous television and turned it on. He distracted himself with cartoons and Mario Kart for a few hours, but couldn't shake the feeling that something was definitely not right.

At noon he made Ramen noodles and helped himself to a Coke, and then took his bike around the neighborhood. He found his friends and stayed out playing with them, comforting himself that as soon as he got home he'd probably be in trouble for not leaving a note, and he could throw the same argument back in his mother's face.

The sun was fading when he rode up to the house, which was still dark. He was immediately put on edge. His heart hammered in his chest as he walked up the front steps and opened the door. Everything was exactly as he'd left it – the empty Coke can on the table, the box of cereal open on the counter, the game console patiently waiting for him to pick a character.

“Where _are_ you?” he asked his empty house. There was no answer.

He didn't care that he made a complete mess of the kitchen making macaroni and cheese for dinner. He was both angry and scared, and as soon as he laid eyes on any member of his family, he was going to start screaming. He ate his dinner off of a good plate from the china cabinet and poured milk into a wine glass. When he was full he marched back into the kitchen and climbed up on the counter to raid his grandmother's cookie stash.

It was dark when when he passed through the dining room to sit back down in front of the television with another Coke and a fistful of Oreos. He was about to reach for Vladie's copy of Grand Theft Auto – a game he was forbidden from playing – when he heard the creaking of the front porch. Scowling, he ran to it, ready to tell off his father or Vladie or whoever was there for leaving him alone in the house and frightening him.

But when he flung open the door in anger, a strange man with golden eyes stood in the doorway, pinning him with his gaze.

He smiled, or attempted to. “Hello, Moltka.”

The sound of the man's voice immobilized him; it was a low hum and Moltka didn't know whether it was menacing or comforting.

He took several steps backward into the house, only to find that the golden-eyed man took the same number toward him. “Don't come any closer!” he hollered, and ducked behind the couch. His heart was racing and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

“I'm not going to hurt you.”

“What do you want?” He didn't want the man to know it, but he was on the verge of tears. “Where is my dad?”

“Please come out,” said the man, that low buzz to his voice unnerving the little boy. “I'll tell you when you come out.”

“You're just trying to trick me!”

The man's throat buzzed with an insincere chuckle. “Moltka, I _wish_ this were a trick. It's not.”

There was a long pause, and the strange man made no move to come any closer. Moltka moved so that just his head was visible. “Where is my family?” he asked, his voice trembling a little. “Did you hurt them?”

“No,” said the man. “But they did get hurt.”

“Where are they?” Hot tears started to stream down his face.

“They're gone, Moltka. Do you understand? They've died.”

“No,” said the boy pleadingly. “You're lying to me. You're trying to trick me.”

The man's golden eyes flashed with sorrow. He dropped to his haunches so he could see Moltka eye-to-eye. “I'm sorry.” He swallowed hard, and continued. “There was an accident. An explosion. All of your family were caught in it. And a friend of mine.” He swallowed again. “His name was Caine. He was like my son. He's gone, too.”

Moltka stared back at the strange man, tears falling in earnest now, hardly noticing that his body was wracked with sobs. “But where is my grandma?” He sobbed when the man made no move to indicate that Lyudmila was safe. His voice seemed far away when he whispered, “Even Mikka?”

The golden eyes closed against the raw pain in Moltka's voice. He forced himself to nod, and when he looked into Moltka's eyes again, all he could say was, “I'm sorry.”

Moltka collapsed on the floor of the living room and dissolved into tears. The strange man picked him up and sat down with him on the couch, and held the little body close as he cried confused and frightened tears into a stranger's shoulder.

Once he'd calmed a little, he asked, “Can I see Mama?”

And the strange man was forced to tell him, in a strained voice, “I'm sorry, Moltka. There is nothing left.” And another round of horrified crying commenced, and an onlooker might be hard-pressed to tell which of them was more upset.

A few minutes later, a woman came and sat next to them. She managed to look concerned and severe at the same time, and she asked the strange man, “This is Mr. Bolotnikov?”

Moltka turned his head a little, but not much. The strange man nodded.

“Will you and Kiza take him in?”

“If he wants,” said the strange man. Moltka had decided his voice was, in fact, comforting.

“What other options are there? Will the Terrsies care for him?”

“After a fashion,” said the man. “Foster care, they call it. If they don't deport him.”

“Deport?”

“Send him back to his relatives in Russia,” said the man. “This particular country has an odd preoccupation with borders and citizenship. It's tribal; I don't understand it, myself.”

“I was born here,” whispered Moltka from the man's shoulder. “Mama promised they can't send me away.”

“You can't stay in this house alone, Moltka,” said the man, and urged him to sit up. “I know it's a lot, but you do understand that, don't you?”

Moltka nodded, and started to feel numb.

“You can stay with me,” he said. “My daughter and I have a farm. It's quiet there; we raise bees, and fields of corn. You don't have to – maybe a friend would take you in, or you could go to foster care – live with a family who will look after you.”

Moltka just stared back at him. At ten years old, all decisions were made for him – aside from mourning his family, he didn't have the first clue about what he was supposed to do next.

“We'll get you back home,” said the lady, and she patted Moltka on the back. “And we'll get Mr. Bolotnikov to where ever he needs to go, as well. Let me know. I'll be waiting.”

The two adults nodded to each other, and when the woman was gone, the man searched Moltka's eyes.

“My name is Stinger Apini,” he said, after a long silence. “My daughter's name is Kiza. We were Jupiter's friends. I know you're confused, and I know you're scared. And I know you don't understand what happened to your family, but I'm the only person who will be able to tell you. If you want to come and stay with me, Moltka, you would be welcome. And when you're ready to hear the story about what happened to your family I will tell you, and I will not lie to you.” He paused to make sure Moltka was listening. “If you don't stay with me, it's all right. I'll call the police, and someone will come get you. You'll be fine. You'll be cared for.”

“Why can't you tell me now?” asked Moltka.

Stinger's head was still swimming with images that wouldn't leave it for quite some time – the horrified look on Jupiter's face when she agreed not to bend to Balem's demands; Balem's triumphant face when she arrived less than a minute after changing her mind; the sadistic way he'd tossed Moltka's paralyzed body at her and sneered, _“Look, I've saved you the little one!”_ ; Jupiter's fury as she went after him; the glimpses of their fight, and Caine's fight with Greeghan as he tried desperately to protect Jupiter, all of it wild and emotionally charged; watching all four of them fall into the collapsing refinery and knowing there was nothing he could do about it.

The most he could do for her Majesty now was make sure her cousin was cared for. And if that meant staying the rest of his life on this backwater little planet, well . . . so be it.

“Look at my eyes, Moltka,” he said. “What do you see?”

“They're gold,” said the boy. “And . . . not . . . round.” He swallowed.

“I don't want you to be afraid of me,” said Stinger. “So I'm not going to lie to you. There are things you don't understand about this planet, because no one has ever told you. Because they don't know. And I will tell you those things, when you're a little older. But I think you're smart enough to understand this: I wasn't born on Earth. Neither were the people who hurt your family.”

Moltka said nothing; Stinger mused that he probably didn't know what the appropriate reaction was to the man who'd just told you your entire family died also telling you he was an alien.

“And that is enough truth for one day.”

Moltka's eyes filled again. “I just want my Mom.”

Stinger shook his head. “I'm sorry, Moltka.”

There was quiet in the living room for a long while. Stinger let him stare off into space, and rest his head on his shoulder as he tried to grasp the enormity of the situation.

“Can you stay with me instead?” asked Moltka. “You and your daughter.”

“Yes. For a little while,” promised Stinger. “We'll stay with you.”


End file.
